


don't think that i can explain it

by bluepyjamas



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, and steve thirsting for bucky, just some thoughts on what pre-war stucky would be like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepyjamas/pseuds/bluepyjamas
Summary: In the summer of his sixteenth birthday, Steve learns the meaning of desire.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58





	don't think that i can explain it

In the summer of his sixteenth birthday, Steve learns the meaning of desire.

It’s a sudden realization - an epiphany, but one that he can’t trace the roots of because it spans so wide across his memory like spider webs. Perhaps it started only a few years ago, perhaps he had always felt that way. It doesn’t matter. All the little snapshots and sensations and scenes piece together in his head to form one picture that both makes sense to him and baffles him.

He learns it from Bucky Barnes, _his best friend._

In a way, it’s understandable that he would do so in such an unconventional way, considering he _is_ quite the unorthodox person himself. Voice too loud for a boy his size, fists too eager to fly for someone his strength - he’s a bizarre combination of elements that just don’t _fit_ , and with so many contradictory traits that he himself finds difficult to understand, much less explain to anyone else, he wonders. What did Bucky see in him so many years ago? Why did he and Bucky become friends in the first place?

So many stories call it some sort of love at first sight - a captivating physical appearance unlocking the door to further exploration and eventually devotion. He’d scoffed when the idea first came to him, incredulous at the thought of anything between him and Bucky brewing to such a degree. It probably would’ve been more accurate if there were a friendship alternative somehow. Either way it’s called, it does somewhat stand true, with how Bucky is the picture of youth and liveliness that draws people to him, captivated by the way he speaks and dances and walks. But Steve understands, more than anyone else, that appearance doesn’t represent a person. Seven-year-old him didn’t care as much about good looking people as he did about what he was having, if he was having it at all, for dinner that night.

Maybe it’s because Bucky’s the only constant he’s known in his whole life, other than the ever-present pangs of pain or hunger or whatever discomfort that seems to plague him in rotation with the seasons. The equivalent of a worn blanket hand-knitted by one’s grandmother, warm and familiar and always smelling of sepia-toned memories, except Bucky isn’t exactly soft like a blanket, no. Bucky sees _him_ \- past those clenched fists is a boy who wants so badly to be treated like he matters. He wants to do good, he wants to speak out, but he can never do so if he’s cast aside or, worse, pitied. He hates feeling helpless, but he despises being seen as helpless even more.

He thinks of hands joining his as he fights against a chest much broader than his own, hands bandaging his wounds with old pieces of cloth, hands wiping away the sweat on his brow as he shivers his way through another fever. Those hands never hold him back - they lift him up to reach whatever he so desires, but they’re always there to catch him if he falls.

For a while, Steve was unnerved at the way Bucky so easily slips beneath his skin, more often than not knowing what Steve needs when he himself wasn’t even sure. And it’s apparent, with the way Bucky’s always surrounded by laughter and praise despite the less than desirable conditions their world is in, that Bucky’s charm isn’t only effective on him. He notices the hand-picked bouquets flowers left on Bucky’s desk, the exasperated smiles teachers try to hide when he gets himself into trouble - it’s clear that Bucky’s adored by most, if not all, people around them. He reminds Steve of water - conforming to the shape of whatever container it’s in, so effortlessly in agreement with whatever and whoever he’s with. It both fascinates and infuriates Steve - just _why_ does he have to be so goddamn likeable?

Yet it is the same way with which Bucky’s molded himself to a shape that perfectly encapsulates Steve’s heart. Soft are his advances in coaxing Steve to let him help, but his resolve to not leave Steve alone is firm. He probably had Steve the moment he decided to jog over and extend his chubby hand to help Steve get up from the ground - so, so many summers ago.

Bucky’s brand of protection is about the only kind he can ever stomach. What’s the point of being alone, when there’s someone who’s so willing to have your back?

It probably started there, Steve muses, as he sets down the pencil he’s apparently been chewing on absentmindedly while he was lost in thought. Comfort and companionship found in another soul that’s so different but so similar to his.

Much like how, in this warm July afternoon just days after his sixteenth birthday, he’s lying in his bed with his open and empty sketchbook lying in his lap, just quietly watching the person of his thoughts next to him.

Clad in a sleeveless undershirt and shorts, Bucky’s slouching in the chair next to Steve’s bed, a book held open with his thumb wedged between the pages. One leg is bent at the knee with his foot propped on the bed while his other leg is straightened, shorts hiked up to expose the pale skin of his inner thighs. He’s been reading for quite a while, so absorbed in the words on the page that the only indication he’s still here is the faint rising and falling of his chest under the thin cotton of his shirt and the occasional squeezing of his eyes to keep them moisturized. Steve’s thankful to whoever wrote the book, because it has Bucky so entranced he doesn’t notice that Steve’s been staring for a long, long time.

There's no mistaking that he's growing, outlines of his muscles beginning to settle in to form a strong, lean physique. Bright eyes, white teeth, pink lips, so lively and charming especially when he’s smiling, and a smart tongue that just knows the right words to say at the right time. Once again he sees just how drastically different he and Bucky are, but he finds that he appreciates it. Loves the way their compatibility is more than just playful banter and shared jokes, but has a physical manifestation on their very bodies.

He’s aware that this attraction - affection - is somewhat of a taboo. He should be longing for the flowery fragrance of perfume, the cherry red of lipstick, the delicate ruffles of lace. He should feel white-hot sparks rush down his spine at the thought of soft curves pressed against the length of his body. He should be disgusted with himself - yet this is a thought that persists only at the back of his head, never quite taking over.

He’s thinking nothing about prayers and everything about the way his skin is tingling, warm not just from the summer heat. Being in close proximity with Bucky somewhat always has that effect on him, especially when it’s just the two of them and nothing special is happening and he can _feel_ all the possibilities hanging in the air around them like a thick cloud. He loves that he and Bucky can share a silence that’s comfortable, where words are unnecessary to fill the space between them, but this is not one of those occasions. Where Bucky’s relaxed, Steve’s mind is running a thousand miles an hour.

Bucky just looks so peaceful, so unaware of Steve’s thoughts and how he’s itching out of his skin to reach out and _touch_ , that it just makes Steve want to mess him up even more. He might not wear lipstick as well as a dame, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t leave his own mark on Bucky. Suck a bruise just out of sight at his collarbones, so that Bucky feels faint stings of tenderness whenever his shirt slides against his skin. Taint his innocence with scarlet-red streaks of desire the shape of his fingertips.

Bucky can be everyone else’s golden boy for all he cares, but Steve is the only one who can undo him like this.

He wonders what would happen if he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the column of Bucky’s neck. Would he freeze before trying to push Steve away, words of denial and shock erupting in a frenzy from his lips? Or would he, after a quiet moment of surprise, tilt his head back in a silent plea for _more_ , for Steve to trail his tongue lower and lower until he can’t think a coherent thought anymore?

A hot breeze drifts in from the half open window by the bed. It caresses the brunet curls at the top of Bucky’s head just the way Steve would, if he could - if he had the courage to. The brown tufts of his hair sway so carelessly yet so deliberately, as if taunting Steve - _you can do this too, if you dared to._ And as he watches, Bucky reaches upwards to play with the loose strand in a light but insistent grip, and he can just hear Bucky’s pout in his lazy drawl of _stop that Stevie, I’m trying to read-_

“Bucky-” falls from his lips before he realizes, some sort of direct trigger between his heart and mouth that bypasses his brain and all the wonderful logical thinking that’s going on there. All the ways this could turn ugly because his voice gave away too much of his desires - none of them registered in his mind the moment he opened his mouth.

“Yeah?” Bucky says. He’s no longer a statue for Steve’s observation, but he’s moving, head turning to face him, body cutting through the space between them like a knife through jelly, and the instant he comes close enough for Steve to _smell_ him, all summer sweat and youth, it’s like a bucket of ice-cold water suddenly gets dumped over his head.

What the hell is he doing?

“Nothing,” he deflects, ducking his head, “Just wanted to mess with you.” He wants to make it sound nonchalant, as if it was just a thought that had suddenly popped into his head - nothing like how he’s been thinking of Bucky and all the things they’ve done and just how happy it makes him to see how Bucky respond to his call so immediately and attentively. As if he has a seventh sense honed just for Steve that makes him alert to his every word and call.

Bucky looks at him disapprovingly. “Well, now that you’ve got my attention, scoot over. The bed is comfier than the chair,” he says. In one fluid motion, he slides onto the mattress and plops himself into the empty space beside Steve. Limbs shift, joints bend, and with a long, satisfied exhale he props his book on his chest again and promptly forgets Steve’s existence beside him as he throws himself back into his fictional world. Completely unaware of the way Steve’s frozen up beside him.

Like this, Steve’s suddenly aware of just how close they are. With only a thin sheet between his knee and Bucky’s knee, he’s trembling with the exertion of holding his leg just millimetres away. He wants to relax his muscles and let their legs press together as if it were an accident, like he was falling into a position that feels easy and comfortable. They do that all the time anyway - an arm around his shoulder, a hand on his back - Bucky has never been one to shy away from physical contact.

He can feel Bucky’s heat seeping into him, the undulating of his skin with his breathing, as if there weren’t only a piece of fabric separating the two of them. But he knows that if he let himself go, if even the smallest patch of his skin touches Bucky, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from plastering every single inch of their bodies together.

He wants nothing more than to be - water. Water in the glass that Bucky brings to his lips and sips from, so that he can learn what it feels like to slide down Bucky’s throat, to course through his veins. Water that cascades down Bucky’s body in their bathroom, so that he can take the heat away from his skin and wash away all the lingering dirt and dust. Water in the fat rain droplets that fall from the sky, so that he can feel Bucky’s skin as he lands on his body, or whisper lullabies into his ear as he falls a gentle summer shower outside their window.

Not that he can actually do any of that.

Defeated, he abandons his sketchbook and the half-finished outline of a familiar jawline he doesn’t realize he’s been drawing. There are so many things he wants to say, but words are slipping like mist between his fingertips, pooling into a puddle of swirling depths so murky he can’t decipher anything inside. All he can do is close his eyes and try not to smile like an idiot or scream into his pillow in frustration.

Beside him, Bucky flips a page, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil in Steve’s mind.

_So this is what desiring someone feels like._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bluepyjamas)


End file.
